


Somethin' Stupid

by Sourboi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Eventual Romance, Five Plus One, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Secret Crush, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27736771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourboi/pseuds/Sourboi
Summary: Five Times Aziraphale and Crowley almost confessed their love for each other, and the one time they finally said it.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 80





	1. Eden

Crawly been watching the angel for a while now. At first, he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. His experience thus far with angels had been rather rude, sharp, stabby, flaming, and over-all unpleasant. But this was the only angel he’d actually seen in the garden, and that was enough to merit investigating. He watched the angel walking the perimeter, admiring the flowers, and watching the humans. Crawly wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. While the other guardians only ever faced outwards, ever vigilant and steadfastly ignoring their charges, this angel took an interest in Eden and its residents. If Crawly had to place a name to the way the angel spoke to the animals or kept vigil over the humans while they slept, he might’ve called it compassion.

The day the humans left, Crawly decided he had nothing to lose. Eden would be shut down now, its creatures and guardians dispersed. Worst case scenario, he spent a thousand years in hell licking his wounds after a smiting. But he had to talk to that angel just once. 

“Well that went down like a lead balloon.” Yes, that was a good opening. Neutral. Or about as neutral as it could be, from a demon to an angel.

Unfortunately, said angel sounded a bit distracted. Flustered, Crawly could even say. Babbling on about the right thing and God’s ineffable plan. Crawly half listened, but something else nagged at him. He’d spent quite a bit of time avoiding angels for one particularly sharp, flaming reason, and he didn’t see any sign of it with this angel.

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” The angel hemmed and hawed, but Crawly insisted. “Yeah, you did, it was flaming like anything. What happened to it? Lost it already, have you?”

The angel mumbled something to his feet that sounded distinctly like ‘gave it away’.

“You what?”

“I gave it away!” The angel wailed, voice full of distress. 

Crawly gaped, a smile sneaking across his face. “Wow. I think I love you,” he almost replied. Fortunately the angel kept talking, trying to justify him giving away his God-given weapon. Frankly, that was just making it worse. And by worse, Crawly meant so much better. 

“I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,” the angel said, dismayed.

As Crawly couldn’t very well say ‘I think I love you’ without getting smote into next milenia, he fumbled for something else. “Nah, I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”

The angel relaxed immediately. “Oh, really? Thank you. It  _ has _ been bothering me.” The smile he gave Crawly was warmer than the still-new sun, and Crawly knew right then that he’d do just about anything to see it again.


	2. 1945

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you tell that I'm a massive hopeless romantic? Also, in case it wasn't obvious, this whole thing is written with Frank & Nancy Sinatra's "Something Stupid" in mind.

“Lift home?” Crowley swaggered off, slick as ever, as if he hadn’t just rushed into a church to save Aziraphale and then, on top of all that, remembered the books when Aziraphale himself had forgotten. Aziraphale clutched his hat to his chest, for fear that otherwise his heart might burst right out. For years— centuries, really— he’d known that Crowley was different. That what they had together, the way Aziraphale felt about him, was different. Here was someone who Aziraphale could talk to, who he could be himself with, who  _ understood him _ in a way no one else ever had. Their Arrangement, relationship, had been for mutual benefit, sure, but even that had been built on thousands of years of interactions, arguments, and trust. He’d known that, and had allowed himself to become, if not comfortable, then at peace with that. 

This was something entirely different. It was so trivial, really. Just consecrated grounds, a bomb that shouldn’t have been released, and a satchel of books. Priceless, yes, in the grand scheme of things. Even more invaluable to Aziraphale, who’d gone through quite a bit of trouble to acquire them. He and Crowley had made it out of much worse scrapes, offered helping hands away from far more dire scenarios. Aziraphale could think of half a hundred times he’d have been discorporated if it weren’t for Crowley and vice versa. This latest misadventure should’ve been just one more to lie to Heaven about, one more drop in the ocean. But it wasn’t. Because it was so much more than a favor, or a mutual arrangement.

The last time he’d seen Crowley, Aziraphale had told him to piss off- or good enough, anyway. He’d been so furious with Crowley, and apparently Crowley had felt the same. Nearly a eighty years without so much as a word. Once upon a time, that might not have been so long, but since they’d both set up shop in London, so to speak… well. It was safe to say that Aziraphale had started to worry that he’d ruined their Arrangement, their partnership, for good. Then Crowley had come dancing up the isle to rescue Aziraphale like he always did, and Aziraphale had never seen a more welcome sight. 

“Oi! Angel! I really don’t fancy waiting out here all night!” Crowley leaned against a large, black automobile, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“Oh, yes, terribly sorry.” Aziraphale swallowed to quell the fluttering in his chest, jammed his hat back on his head, and clambered into the passenger seat. “Is this your car?”

“A 1926 Bently,” Crowley replied proudly, sliding behind the wheel. “Got her in America. I’ll tell you, they really had something with that whole ‘Prohibition’ gig. Got a commendation, just for getting shitfaced off bathtub gin!”

“Sounds lovely. My congratulations,” Aziraphale said. The warm, fluttering thing in his chest threatened to escape again at the sight of Crowley’s smile, easy and carefree. “Will you be returning there, then?”

“Nah. Just popped over for a spell. Gin’s good and all, but you can’t get any decent fish and chips there. ‘Sides, all my stuff’s here in London.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad you’ll be staying.” Heat rose to Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Easier to keep an eye on you. Thwart your wiles. Keep your enemies close, like they always say.”

The smile faded from Crowley’s face. “‘Course. Enemies.”

“Crowley…” What Aziraphale wanted very badly was to say “I never thought of you as an enemy. Really, I think I might actually love you. In fact, I’m almost sure of it. More sure than I’ve been about anything else.” But he couldn’t say that. As sure as he was about his own feelings— and they still required a lot of processing and perhaps an emotional breakdown or two— he couldn’t be sure Crowley felt the same way. Not just because he was demon, but because they’d spent so long as friends masquerading as business partners masquerading as enemies that it was impossible to tell at all how Crowley viewed what they had. Perhaps even more importantly, such an admission would endanger them both, and everything they'd built together. He couldn't do that, not with so much at stake. So, instead, what he said was “Would you please slow this infernal vehicle down? You’re going to cause more destruction than the bombs!”

It wasn’t a perfect distraction, but the tension in Crowley’s shoulders eased enough for Aziraphale to breath. “Relax, angel. I’ve got it all under control.”

“You know, I’m fairly certain that driving this fast is illegal.”

“It’s not illegal if they don’t catch us.”

Aziraphale huffed to disguise his surprised pleasure at the use of ‘us’ instead of ‘me’. “Don’t go dragging me into this. If this is the way you drive, you’ll be lucky if I ever set foot in this car again.”


	3. 1968: Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's angst time babey

If there was ever an antonym for unpredictable, it would be Aziraphale. After six thousand years, Crowley had picked up the angel’s habits, mannerisms, and general ideology of the world. Aziraphale liked literature and philosophy, he preferred wine to whisky, and when he decided on something he never, not once, changed his mind. Crowley had seen him on multiple occasions, either physically or metally, plant himself like a bull and refuse to budge. When Aziraphale walked away from him in St James park, Crowley had thought that would be the end of it. There would be no swaying him, not after that display of stubbornness. So when Crowley slipped into his car to find a nervously fidgeting angel in the passenger seat, he was a tad surprised. When Aziraphale passed him a thermos with a shaky warning, Crowley was completely floored. The only time he’d ever been this thrown for a loop had been in a garden, on a wall, when an Angel of the Lord admitting to giving away his God-given weapon to the newly exiled humans. And, just like the wal, Crowley felt himself falling in love all over again.

“After everything you said?” After their fight, and all the ones before it. Fights about right and wrong, good and evil, angels and demons. Opposite sides. After Aziraphale had planted himself so firmly against the idea of ever handing Crowley anything so dangerous as holy water. It was as if he’d handed Crowley his own flaming sword, and with it all the faith and trust he could muster. “ _ Aziraphale _ ,” Crowley nearly said. “I know how much this means to you, and it means just as much to me. If I hadn’t been in love with you for the past six thousand years, I would be falling all over again. And I want you to know that I won’t waste this, what you’ve given me, because it’s probably the most precious thing I’ll ever have.”

However, for all Aziraphale’s unpredictability tonight, Crowley was sure Aziraphale would run and never look back if he said all that. Just thinking about saying it made  _ him _ want to run and never look back. So instead, he swallowed and tried for one of their old banters. “Should I say thank you?”

“Better not.” Aziraphale still wouldn’t look at Crowley, not properly. Crowley gripped the steering wheel to prevent himself from taking Aziraphale’s hand. He imagined it would be soft; the smooth, careworn hands of a book keeper. The warmth of an angel.

“Can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, better not.” Some form of defeat must’ve shown on Crowley’s face, because Aziraphale smiled at him regretfully. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Maybe someday we can...go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

Aziraphale looked so like he wanted to believe that, and for a moment Crowley almost did as well. Maybe someday they could live in a world where it wasn’t a punishable offence to be seen together. Where Crowley could say the things he wanted to say, to take Aziraphale’s hand without fear that someone was watching. Where Aziraphale wouldn’t need to pass Crowley a vial of holy water in shaking hands, and Crowley didn’t have to accept it with equal fragility. “I’d love that,” Crowley almost admitted, but even that was too close to the truth. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go,” he offered in lieu of saying something he’d regret.

“Oh.” In that moment, Aziraphale looked like he wanted very badly to say something. Like it might destroy him if he didn’t. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” And before Crowley could figure out what the heaven that meant or what he was supposed to say to it, Aziraphale was gone. Crowley swallowed back his words, and they burned like holy water down his throat.


	4. 1968: Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can't have one car scene without the other, right?

If there was ever an antonym for unpredictable, it would be Aziraphale. After six thousand years, Crowley had picked up the angel’s habits, mannerisms, and general ideology of the world. Aziraphale liked literature and philosophy, he preferred wine to whisky, and when he decided on something he never, not once, changed his mind. Crowley had seen him on multiple occasions, either physically or metally, plant himself like a bull and refuse to budge. When Aziraphale walked away from him in St James park, Crowley had thought that would be the end of it. There would be no swaying him, not after that display of stubbornness. So when Crowley slipped into his car to find a nervously fidgeting angel in the passenger seat, he was a tad surprised. When Aziraphale passed him a thermos with a shaky warning, Crowley was completely floored. The only time he’d ever been this thrown for a loop had been in a garden, on a wall, when an Angel of the Lord admitting to giving away his God-given weapon to the newly exiled humans. And, just like the wal, Crowley felt himself falling in love all over again.

“After everything you said?” After their fight, and all the ones before it. Fights about right and wrong, good and evil, angels and demons. Opposite sides. After Aziraphale had planted himself so firmly against the idea of ever handing Crowley anything so dangerous as holy water. It was as if he’d handed Crowley his own flaming sword, and with it all the faith and trust he could muster. “ _ Aziraphale _ ,” Crowley nearly said. “I know how much this means to you, and it means just as much to me. If I hadn’t been in love with you for the past six thousand years, I would be falling all over again. And I want you to know that I won’t waste this, what you’ve given me, because it’s probably the most precious thing I’ll ever have.”

However, for all Aziraphale’s unpredictability tonight, Crowley was sure Aziraphale would run and never look back if he said all that. Just thinking about saying it made  _ him _ want to run and never look back. So instead, he swallowed and tried for one of their old banters. “Should I say thank you?”

“Better not.” Aziraphale still wouldn’t look at Crowley, not properly. Crowley gripped the steering wheel to prevent himself from taking Aziraphale’s hand. He imagined it would be soft; the smooth, careworn hands of a book keeper. The warmth of an angel.

“Can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you.” Some form of defeat must’ve shown on Crowley’s face, because Aziraphale smiled at him regretfully. “Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Maybe someday we can...go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.”

Aziraphale looked so like he wanted to believe that, and for a moment Crowley almost did as well. Maybe someday they could live in a world where it wasn’t a punishable offence to be seen together. Where Crowley could say the things he wanted to say, to take Aziraphale’s hand without fear that someone was watching. Where Aziraphale wouldn’t need to pass Crowley a vial of holy water in shaking hands, and Crowley didn’t have to accept it with equal fragility. “I’d love that,” Crowley almost admitted, but even that was too close to the truth. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go,” he offered in lieu of saying something he’d regret.

“Oh.” In that moment, Aziraphale looked like he wanted very badly to say something. Like it might destroy him if he didn’t. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” And before Crowley could figure out what the heaven that meant or what he was supposed to say to it, Aziraphale was gone. Crowley swallowed back his words, and they burned like holy water down his throat.

1968: Aziraphale

The previous record Aziraphale held for worrying was thirty-two years, just after he and Crowley reached a formal Arrangement. He’d fretted and dithered about potential corruption, or worse, getting caught and Crowley being punished on his account. Their argument over holy water demolished that streak and left the remains in the dust. Not only were his fears about getting caught renewed tenfold, they were added to by fears of Crowley hurting himself- either intentionally or on purpose- and leaving Aziraphale responsible for the death of his closest friend. The fact that he could even admit that to himself now did not help matters in the slightest, let alone all the things he  _ wouldn’t _ admit to himself. Precisely one hundred-five years after their row, Aziraphale caught wind of one of Crowley’s schemes and made up his mind on the spot. If Crowley was so determined to throw himself in harm’s way, Aziraphale could at least ensure he pulled him back out again, as Crowley had done for him so many times over the years. 

“What are you doing here?” The surprise in Crowley’s voice was obvious. Usually it was him seeking Aziraphale out, and not the other way around. But this was too important. He couldn’t wait for Crowley to come sauntering ‘round, not with his life at stake.

“I needed a word with you.”

“What?”

“I work in Soho. I hear things. I hear that you’re setting up a caper to rob a church.” Aziraphale paused. One last chance to talk Crowley out of it— he’d always been the more rash of the two of them. “Crowley, it’s too dangerous. Holy water won’t just kill your body; it’ll destroy your body completely.” 

Crowley sighed, and Aziraphale knew he’d failed. “You told me what you think a hundred and five years ago—”

“And I haven’t changed my mind. But I can’t have you risking your life, not for something dangerous. So…” With trembling hands, as though it might spill over any second despite the tightly-screwed cap, Aziraphale offered up his thermos. “You can call off the robbery.”  _ Please.  _ “Don’t go unscrewing the cap.” He knew Crowley wasn’t after holy water just for decoration, but still. For the past hundred-odd years, visions of dark sunglasses sitting in steaming black puddle had plagued him relentlessly. If that vision should come true, especially now, Aziraphale would have no one to blame but himself. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to bear that responsibility.

With equal delicacy, Crowley took the thermos. “This is the real thing?”

“The holiest.” Sure to destroy any demon, even wound Lucifer himself, with just a drop. The thought made Aziraphale feel sick. 

“After everything you said?” Shock flitted over Crowley’s face, accompanied by something more just hidden in the shadows of his glasses. Aziraphale swallowed down the urge to lunge for the thermos, to take it all back, and nodded. 

“Should I say thank you?”

When Aziraphale could very well be handing Crowley his own demise? He couldn’t even meet his eyes properly. “Better not.”

“Should I drop you anywhere?” The question sounded like a desperate attempt at their casual banter. Too desperate to succeed, really. 

“No, thank you.” The last thing Aziraphale wanted to do was spend another second in the proximity of Crowley and holy water together. Although the anxiety of leaving, of wondering if something had happened and the water had somehow spilled, might be even worse. Perhaps worst of all was the look on Crowley’s face— as if Aziraphale had told him he could pour the whole thermos right over his head.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” Aziraphale said. Pleaded, really. “Maybe someday we could have a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.” He knew, or at least he thought he knew, what Crowley was really asking. For the majority of their existences, they’d met on the pretext of the Arrangement. It hadn’t all been purely business, but the charade of it had let Aziraphale bury anything deeper. With the Arrangment, he could keep shovelling over all the things he shouldn’t think, all the things he shouldn’t feel, no matter how hard they tried to claw their way up. That task had become exponentially harder since the second world war, but perhaps someday he could let them emerge into the sunlight. 

“I could take you anywhere,” Crowley offered, and he seemed on the verge of pleading too. For what, Aziraphale could very easily imagine. Whether it was true was another question altogether. “Anywhere you want to go.”

For a single moment, all the things Aziraphale wanted to say clawed their way onto his lips. “I would like that very much, my dear. You know you could take me anywhere; all that matters is that I’m with you. I love you, you see, and the very idea of being on this Earth without you is terrifies me to my very core.” If he said these things, though, all his hard work would be undone. He’d be putting them both in danger- more danger than even holy water could bring. Angels weren’t supposed to love demons, and demons weren’t supposed to love angels. They were long past ‘supposed to’, but even their current territory was safely familiar compared to the daunting ordeal of being known, and then being loved anyway, and then perhaps losing the person who had gone through that ordeal with him. So Aziraphale stifled his wild, rebellious words, and buried them with an excuse. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

The look on Crowley’s face was more than Aziraphale could bear, nearly unearthing everything he worked so hard to hide. Aziraphale fled, leaving the demon alone with a thermos of holy water, all Aziraphale’s worst fears, and a prayer that none of them would be exposed to Crowley.


	5. 2019

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is short and sweet (and by sweet I mean angsty ;) )

The world was going to end. The world was going to end unless Aziraphale did something. The world had already ended. It had ended in a gazebo in St. James park, when Aziraphale had told the biggest lie he’d ever told— even bigger than the lies he’d told himself, and the other angels, and God. And the world was going to end and Aziraphale had to stop it so he could somehow try to fix everything he’d broken. There was only one way he could think to do that. It would just be an incredible risk, staking everything he was and everything he believed on the chance someone in Heaven was still listening. But if it had even the smallest chance of leading to fixing everything— returning life to the way it used to be, with Crowley at his side and the world at their feet— the risk was more than worth taking. The only question was how to go about it. 

His frantic worrying was interrupted by the familiar screech of tires, a frantic litany of apologies Aziraphale never deserved, and an offer he wanted to take more than anything. Which was why he couldn’t take it. There was no running away from this. If Aziraphale couldn’t fix this, the world would end. If what Crowley said was true, Alpha Centauri wouldn’t be far enough. There would be nowhere for them to hide, not if the world ended. It already had, but Aziraphale had to try anyway. He had to make Crowley understand this was the only way. 

“That’s why I’m going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix this.” She had to. She was the only one who could. Aziraphale certainly couldn’t. All he could do was screw up, ruin things, and then scramble madly to keep it all from falling apart.

“That won’t happen!” Crowley’s voice mirrored the desperation Aziraphale fought to push down. “You’re so clever! How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

Well of course it was stupid. Aziraphale wasn’t clever, or brave, or strong. He’d lied and let himself be tempted and fell in love with a demon. And, for all his faults, or perhaps because of them, he didn’t regret it. Not until now. “Crowley, please,” he wanted to explain. “I love you, you see, that’s why I have to do this. I have to fix it— to make them understand. This is the only way I know how to keep you safe. It’s stupid and dangerous and it probably won’t work, but I have to at least try. It’s what I was made for— to protect the things I love.”

There was no time to say any of that, though, so instead Aziraphale simply mustered what little strength he had and all the love he could, and said, “I forgive you.” It was an explanation and a declaration and an apology all in one. 

It wasn’t enough. Crowley stormed off, promising to leave and never come back, and Aziraphale watched him go. Didn’t even try to stop him. Some protector. Swallowing his guilt like a piece of foul sushi, Aziraphale turned his back on the space where Crowley had been. All he could do was try to fix this, and perhaps, if he succeeded, Crowley might one day forgive him.


	6. Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better book an appointment with your dentist, cause this chapter's tooth-rotting fluff is going to give you cavities!

It almost doesn’t seem real, this epilogue. They averted the apocalypse— together— and they outsmarted their former sides— together— and every day they wait for the other shoe to drop, for the final chapter to end in a blaze of holy trumpets and roaring hellfire. And every day, it doesn’t. Aziraphale acquires new books for his shop. Crowley acquires new plants to terrorize. They explore new restaurants together, and revisit old ones. They see new plays, and old ones, and remember the days when they attended openings with one eye on the stage and the other over their shoulders. They debate, and bicker, and argue. Always, they make up. Some nights they spend drinking away on one couch or another, others they retreat to their own safe places. They wait. A year is not a long time, when compared against six thousand others. But it is the longest year of their lives. And with each passing hour it seems more and more likely that they’ve been forgotten, at least for now. 

As the anniversary of this new chapter’s beginning approaches, they shift. Aziraphale leaves a handful of books at Crowley’s, purely by accident of course. Several weeks later, Crowley drops off a plant that hasn’t been growing up to expectations, and then another and another. Aziraphale makes sure to keep a stock of Crowley’s favorite coffee in stock, despite it being (or perhaps because it is) the devil’s drink. Crowley returns Aziraphale’s books, along with a decently sized stack of trashy novels and magazines— “Just to have some decent literature around”. Like oil and water in a vigorously shaken container, their lives begin to bleed into each other. Still disparate, in some ways, but impossible to separate now. They probably couldn’t if they wanted to. Not that the thought of doing so had ever crossed their minds.

Exactly one year after nearly killing the Antichrist, averting the apocalypse, and escaping certain death, Crowley and Aziraphale once again dine at the Ritz. It’s everything both of them wanted, and secretly planned. The menu, influenced by Aziraphale’s subtle blessing over the chef. The alcohol, somewhat less subtly suggested by Crowley and a sizable bribe to the manager. They talk and dine for hours, revisiting old memories, and rehashing well-worn and well-loved arguments. Crowley casually brings up the wall, their very first meeting. What a time that had been. How young they were, how naive. Aziraphale, somewhat less casually, mentions that dreadful business in 1941, and how grateful he’d been for the whole affair. They both think they’re being clever, while failing to realize how utterly oblivious the other is. And, at every given opportunity, they sneak sickeningly sweet looks and hide fond smiles behind their glasses.

Towards the end of the evening, when desert had been cleared away, the bottle of fine Prosecco was nearing its end, and even the pianist had gone home, Crowley shifted in his chair. Aziraphale fiddled with his ring. The time was right, now, for the picking. All they had to do was reach. 

“Crowley—”. Aziraphale said, at the same time Crowley started, “Aziraphale—”.

Both paused, smiling far too sheepishly and affectionately. They tried again.

“My dear, there’s something—” and “I wanted to tell you—”.

They stopped and laughed shyly at their own foolishness. 

“So sorry dear, you can—”, accompanied by “Go ahead, angel.”

Once again they cut themselves off. Crowley downed the last of his drink. Aziraphale looked nervously at everything but Crowley. When they were quite sure the other wasn’t going to try again, they spoke up. “I love you.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley. Crowley stared at Aziraphale. “You what?”

“I… I said that I love you. Did you…”

“Erm. Yeah. I did. Do. Love you too.” 

“Oh.” 

Now it was Crowley’s turn to look everywhere else, furiously fighting the blush creeping up his neck. Aziraphale stared openly, adoringly. “My dear?”

“Hm?”

Aziraphale waited until Crowley dragged his gaze back to meet Aziraphale’s own before leaning forward. Taking Crowley’s hand. Pressing his other against Crowley’s cheek. “My dearest. Crowley. I love you. I have for a very long time— possibly even longer than I’ve been aware. And I cannot possibly tell you how glad I am that you feel the same. But, perhaps, I can show you?”

At Crowley’s minute nod, Aziraphale closed the gap between them and pressed his lips gently to Crowley’s. To Aziraphale, Crowley tasted like a warm, cherrywood fire and whisky and just a hint of sharp copper. To Crowley, Aziraphale tasted like vanilla, and roses, and the way it smells after it rains. Although Aziraphale was a known-hedonist who could’ve indulged in tasting Crowley for centuries, he forced himself to pull back. Crowley mourned the loss of sweetness and warmth. 

“Am I...am I going too fast for you?”

Crowley nearly laughed. “You? Go too fast for me? Never, angel. Not in six thousand years.”

“Oh, good. Because I am quite enjoying this.”

“Ngk. Me too.”

Aziraphale beamed, and it felt as though Crowley had stepped into a patch of pure sunlight. “Shall we continue at home?”

“Best idea you’ve had all night.” It escaped neither’s notice that Aziraphale had referred to the bookshop as  _ home _ , and that Crowley had not objected. Because that’s what it had become. Home. 

Crowley and Aziraphale continued to court, and to settle. They learned each other in ways they’d only dreamed of doing; that Crowley relished having his hair touched, played with, braided, pulled. That Aziraphale found love in a cup of hot cocoa waiting at his desk, made just the way he liked it. Fears that had been stowed away for centuries were brought into the light, to be comforted and smoothed away. Apologies were made again, for past wrongs refreshed. When the city grew too cloying, Aziraphale and Crowley retreated into the countryside together. A cottage in South Downs, with old oak shelves full of books and a garden even Crowley was challenged to tame. They did things the human way, with burned dinners and dirty knees and late evenings spent simply in each other’s company. Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hair as he read aloud. Crowley teased Aziraphale about exactly how many marshmallows he wanted in his cocoa. Aziraphale sought out new tapes for the Bently, miraculously ensuring they would remain untouched by Queen. Crowley brought in flowers for Aziraphale, daring him to guess their meaning. Crowley whispered in Aziraphale’s ear as he fell asleep, and Aziraphale greeted him every morning as the first thing Crowley heard when he came downstairs. Every day, in a hundred different ways they told each other: “I love you”. After all, they decided, what way to end an epilogue than that?


End file.
